


I started as an ember, and now I'm raging like a fire

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: Stargirl (TV 2020)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Bruises, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, Father Figures, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pat Dugan is a Good Dad, Post-Season/Series 01, Rick Tyler Needs a Hug, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Team as Family, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: Pat is aware that there are some things about Rick Tyler that nobody knows, and probably never will. But one faithful day, Pat decides he at least owes it to his dad to try and get to the bottom of it, even if it kills him.
Relationships: Pat Dugan & Rick Tyler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	I started as an ember, and now I'm raging like a fire

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, Stargirl is... so good?? I haven't actually watched it because we don't have DC Universe in Australia, so I've been watching a playlist will all the important scenes from the show and stuff (I think you can find it if you just type 'Stargirl DC'?? Maybe?) and guys, all the characters are so damn good! They're so realistic and relatable!! And like, I totally understand where Rick is coming from with his anger and all. I'm not violent or a delinquent or anything, but I can totally see how he got to where he is.
> 
> This is probably a very bad fic in terms of the Stargirl fandom, but I was actually really proud of it. It started with the idea of the gym and morphed on from there. I saw someone say on Tumblr that Rick is the only one who needs to know how to fight but actually doesn't, so I wanted to bring that up, so that's why Rick is at the gym- practising his punches. 
> 
> I know that Rick probably wouldn't have told Pat about his uncle, but feel like he would have felt safe enough around Pat to tell him a little bit. He didn't say what happened, just that it did, you know?? I also just really need Pat to do to Matt what he did to Courtney's dad in season two. I need Pat to be team dad and take care of these kids!! I think the kids need him too. It's only natural. I can imagine Pat breaking Matt's nose somewhere in the future. 
> 
> Also, before you read the fic I do want to mention that there is a lot of talk about bruises and injuries, but most of them have been caused during patrol and his time as Hourman, and only a bruise and a small cut on his face have been caused by Matt. I do want to put that out there because I don't explicitly say it but that's what that is.
> 
> Anyway, I really really hope that you guys enjoy this fic!! I'm actually super happy with it and I like how it turned out. It was a lot of fun. I love these characters and this show and I'm planning on writing much more for them when I get the chance! Thanks for reading in advance!

Once things had begun to settle down ever so slightly after the Injustice Society had been defeated for the time being, Pat looked into finding a new gym to train at. Not that there was anything wrong with the old one, but knowing that it was run and owned by Sportsmaster and his family, he thought it was for the best to stay far away.

Though the new gym was smaller, a gym was a gym in Pat’s mind, and it would be nice to train without feeling out of place, or like he was suffocating under the stifling weight of expectation. It was out of the way of his daily commute, but he prefered it that way. It was a lot less likely for anyone he knew to catch him there, and it was nicer in the long run. Everyone mined their own business and left him well enough alone, lost in their own workouts and their headphones blaring music in their ears, so nobody paid any attention to Paul and his lack of knowledge of the weights and machines beyond what he had been taught by Crusher.

It was only after hearing the same, repetitive sound for the first few weeks of his attendance that Pat’s curiosity was piqued. The sound was vaguely familiar from a time long ago, back when the original Justice Society was still alive and they would spend hours in the training area as they attacked the equipment with practised vigour.

Eventually, he finished his workout and wiped down the equipment for the next person before he walked on wobbly legs towards the constantly repetitive and painfully familiar sound of fists colliding against a sand-stuffed boxing bag, the chain swinging harshly, the leather unyielding under the users gloved fists.

Silently, he began to unwrap the protective fabric from around his hands, Pat watched from behind and tried to deduce why this normal-seeming man with dishevelled hair and beading sweat pooling down the nape of his neck and into his dirty tank top with bruises of varying size and colour blotched across his tense and rippling shoulders would be at this gym in the middle of nowhere every day for weeks at a time.

The punches weren’t too impressive. They were hard and fast, always hit their target, but the technique was sloppy and much too violent, his fists hitting the bag hard enough to make it swing back and forth with every impact.

Glancing down, Pat caught sight of a well-used brown backpack resting beside him on the ground, and as he peered into the open bag, the drawstring loose and the flap flipped back, he saw a dark leather diary hidden partially by a change of clothes, a brown paper bag that looked suspiciously like something you would buy from the bottle shop around the corner and, most notably, the top of an hourglass with golden sand peeking out from a separate yet still open portion of the bag, the chain wrapped around itself and kept nice and tight in a bundle. 

It was as if Pat’s heart sank down to his toes as he realized exactly who this was, and he dropped the forgotten bandages to the ground and without thinking, he reached out to place a hand on Rick’s shoulder. 

Instinctively, Rick spun around rapid quick and shoved Pat away with his open palm while smacking his hand off of his shoulder, which Pat immediately put back, and held arms up defensively, hands clenched into tight fists before he realized who he was looking at and narrowed his eyes in thinly veiled confusion. He reached up and yanked his earphones out of his ears. “ _ Pat _ ?”

“Rick?” Pat asked, not moving his arm from Rick’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Rick retorted. He was tense under Pat’s hand, strung like a taught wire. There was a cut on his chin that must have been bleeding at some time, and a growing bruise on his cheekbone. Not at all the way he looked when Pat last saw him.

Part of Pat thought that maybe he should stop touching him now and remove his hand from his shoulder, but the other part really didn’t want to let him go. He settled for loosening his hold. “I’m working out. Getting ‘ripped’ as Crusher would say,” Rick made a face, and Pat cleared his throat. “Your turn. What are you doing here?”

Shuffling awkwardly, Rick gestured vaguely at the front door and the windows. “I come by every morning before class. It’s on my way to school.”

“Oh,” Pat frowned. “I didn’t know that you lived out this way.”

Rick shrugged. “Always have.”

“And you walk it? It’s pretty far away from town.”

“I haven’t got a car. Not until I fix up the mustang.”

Humming, Pat finally removed his hand from Rick’s shoulder and lowered it to his side, sticking it in his pocket so he didn’t feel the urge to reach out again. Rick shook his arm out and his shoulders immediately untensed, and Pat felt something squeeze in his chest. “What are you doing here? At this gym, I mean, not in general.”

“Same thing as you,” Rick glanced down and away from Pat to undo the velcro of the boxing mitts still around his wrists. 

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” Pat said, keeping all judgement out of his voice as he watched Rick hold the gloves in one hand and ran the other through his sweaty, messy hair, pushing the strands back in the usual place.

Rick didn’t look at him as he adjusted his hair, running his fingers through it and pushing it away from where it clung to his skin. “Well, you guys all tend to get annoyed with me when I get angry, so I come here early in the morning so I can hit something. And I feel like you guys would rather me punch an inanimate object than a person.”

“Well, that’s true,” Pat tried not to smile as he watched Rick bend down and gather his stuff, pushing the hourglass and his father’s journal further into the bag before zipping it up. Pat thought it was best not to mention the paper bag. He wasn’t in the mood to end up on the other side of those boxing gloves. “Did something happen today? You were going at it pretty hard. I could hear you from the other side of the gym. Actually, I can _usually_ hear you hitting the bag from all over the gym.”

Eyebrows pulled together in a frown, Rick paused zipping up his bag to think before slowly rising with the strap over his shoulder. “No, nothing’s happened,” he said, maybe a little too harshly, a little too fast. He didn’t look at Pat as he said it. “I just like hitting things, is all. I like coming here and hitting the bags. At least here they give me gloves that I can use.”

The thought of Rick often hit things like that  _ without  _ gloves on a common enough basis to know what it felt like just made Pat sick. He thought about the bruises across Rick’s back instead, ranging from yellowed with age to some deep purple and some still in that medium in-between phase once it’s been some time. He also thought about the bruise on his cheekbone and the semi-deep cut on his chin, surrounded by its own faint bruise. “Did you get into some sort of fight last night after you went home from our place?” Pat asked, gesturing at his face. “You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall. And I thought you were invulnerable when you… well, you know,” he mimed flipping an hourglass against his chest. 

“I’m not totally invulnerable,” Rick said, teeth clenched, voice clipped, shoulders tense. “I heal faster during my hour. What’s your point?”

“Did you get into a fight?” Pat pressed.

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick bristled, shoulders pulled back. It was a stance that Pat recognised by now- he was getting ready for a fight. “It was nice seeing you, Pat, but I’ve got to go.”

As Rick made to move past Pat, his paternal instincts finally took over and without thinking, he reached out when Rick got closer and gently wrapped his fingers around his jaw, skimming his thumb across the gash instinctively. Rick stiffened up beneath his touch, recoiling in a way that Pat probably should have expected, and standing stock-still in his shock. He was barely breathing as Pat touched the tender bruise of his cheekbone and appraised him with a fathers eye. “You should come back to the Pit Stop with me,” Pat said finally, pulling away from Rick and taking a step back to give him space. Rick was almost shaking as he let out his held breath but still didn’t move. “We can hang out for a bit. Besides, S.T.R.I.P.E needs a few touch-ups, and I could really use an extra pair of hands.”

Rick looked suspicious. “You want…  _ my  _ help?”

“Absolutely,” Pat said. “I don’t think there’s anyone better.”

“Just… you and me? Alone? No Courtney?” Rick asked. 

“Just you and me,” Pat confirmed. “Is that a problem? I could probably see if Courtney could come over, but Yolanda invited her over to meet her parents, so I’m not sure if she could make it. Maybe Mike…”

“It’s alright,” Rick interpreted him, voice tight. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know why you would want to hang out with some 15-year-old kid without your daughter there.”

“Well, we’re a team, right?” Pat shrugged. “We’ve got to get to know each other somehow. Beth and Yolanda… they’re a little easier to read than you. Don’t get me started on Courtney. She’s like an open book.”

“Oh,” Rick blinked. He probably would have looked less shocked if Pat had slapped him across the face. “Alright, I guess. Uh, I suppose I’ll meet you there?”

Pat frowned. “What do you mean? You’re going to  _ walk _ ?”

"Uh," Rick glanced from side to side, looking for an escape. "Yeah?"

“No, Rick, come on,” Pat scoffed. “It’s too far away. Besides, I have a car.”

Rick flushed as Pat lead him out the front door and to his car, and they didn’t speak as they climbed into their respective seats, buckled up their seatbelts and started the car. On the way, Rick pulled his tank top off over his head and dug through his bag for the change of clothes he had brought, and Pat struggled not to stare at the bruises that marred his skin. He had to force himself to stop wondering where they had come from and tightened his hands on the wheel as he dragged his eyes back to the road.

At the Pit Stop, they claimed separate ends of the work station, tinkering on their own pieces of S.T.R.I.P.E’s armour and interior. The shop was closed today, so they didn't have to worry about any prying eyes. Considering Rick only took up mechanics as a passive hobby, and not a profession like Pat, he gave him the easiest and most familiar pieces to fiddle with while Pat dove into the most difficult things. If Rick noticed, he didn’t mention it.

After a while, Pat eventually called a break, and he stuck his head in the bonnet of some car that had been brought to him to fix while Rick pulled his dad’s journal out of his backpack and began flicking through the equations, writing interesting ones down on a spare piece of paper and solved them with ease.

“So,” Pat broke the silence as he pulled his head from the engine and wiped his hands on a rag. “Where are you living these days, Rick?”

“I already told you,” Rick replied absently. “West Farms. I’ve always lived there.”

“Is that your parent’s place?”

“Used to be. Not anymore.”

He said it so flippantly that Pat paused and looked around the raised hood to watch Rick, seated at the table with his legs tucked under him, intently flipping through the journal, scribbling notes on the side. In the harsh overhead lights of the garage, the bruise on his cheekbone stood out even more on his fair skin. “How’s the suit treating you?” he tried.

Instead, Rick just raised an eyebrow at him. “The suit?”

“Yeah. It used to be your dads. I doubt he designed it with you in mind, and you’re almost the same hight as he was despite being a lot younger,” Pat said. “Unlike Yolanda or Courtney, nothing about your suit changed. So how are you going with it?”

“It’s fine I guess,” Rick said. “The hood’s a bit heavy, and the cape’s going to take a little more getting used to, but I don’t mind it. It was my dads, so I wouldn’t change it anyway.”

Still, Pat tried to make conversation. “Do you go to the gym… often?” He winced before the words were even out of his mouth.

He was met with a frustrated huff. “Every morning. I’m trying to teach myself how to fight because you know, nobody ever  _ bothered  _ to  _ teach  _ me. I kinda just punch things really hard and hope that they don’t get back up, but I’ve learned recently that there should be more to it than that if you want to stay alive.”

The admission made Pat feel a little guilty. Actually, a  _ lot  _ guilty. He was so used to Courtney and her staff that could fight on its own and Yolanda with her claws that could cut through almost anything that he had neglected to teach Rick the bare fundamentals of fighting beyond ‘punch’ and and ‘duck’. “Well, in that case, I could teach you some moves if you’d like? Saves you going to the gym and working on a boxing bag.”

“Whatever,” 

Sighing, Pat tossed the dirty rag aside and walked out from behind the car further into the centre of the room, and Rick glanced up through his eyelashes at him before returning to his notes. 

“You know,” Pat said, gesturing vaguely. “We never really got a chance to, uh, _unpack_ at all after the last battle with the Injustice Society. Or, really, after any battles with the Injustice Society.”

Finally, Rick glanced up at him, but only to give him another frown. “You want to unpack… what? There’s nothing to unpack. Maybe with the others, but not with me.”

“Not with you, huh?” Pat almost wanted to smile. He probably should have expected him to be so stubborn. “Wasn’t it _you_ who finally faced the monster that killed your parents while simultaneously saving all of Blue Valley?”

That finally made Rick pause. “I didn’t really _do anything_ to save Blue Valley. I mean, sure, I was there and all, but Yolanda was the one who killed Brainwave and stopped the machine. Beth distracted the Gambler, found a way to break his control on you without killing you all and siphoned all his funds to charity. Courtney did most of the work down there. Hell, even Mike helped. I kinda just… distracted a dumb beast.”

“I think you did a lot more than that, Rick,” Pat frowned. “If you hadn’t been there, Grundy would have torn me to pieces just like it tore apart S.T.R.I.P.E. You fought it so I could get away and help Barbara. I couldn’t have done that without you.”

The shrug he received was half-hearted at best. “I’m sure you would have found a way to get out of there even if I hadn’t shown up. I guess you’re just lucky that I did so you didn’t have to.”

“I think that if you hadn’t shown up when you had, I would have been toast,” Pat disagreed. Rick stared down at the table. “Why did you do it?”

If the situation was a little bit different, Pat would have thought that the way Rick’s nose crinkled up in confusion would have been adorable. “Why would I…? Jeez, Pat, you’re Courtney’s _dad_. Of  _ course _ , I would help you. I wouldn’t have just left you there to _die_.”

“I appreciate it, Rick, but that wasn’t what I meant,” Pat chuckled, crossing his arms against his chest and leaning back against the shelving unit opposite Rick. “But no, I was talking about Grundy. Why did you let him go?”

Rick stilled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do,” Pat said. “This whole time, you’ve been trying to get revenge for your parents. That's the whole reason you joined the Justice Society in the first place. I thought that you would have ripped the thing apart with your bare hands if you had the chance. But you didn’t kill Grundy. You let him go. Why did you do that?” 

Refusing to look up, Rick returned to fiddling with the pencil. “My hour was up.”

“Uh-huh,” Pat said, unconvinced. Rick’s jaw was clenched tightly, and he was staring harshly at the far wall, eyes piercing and mouth pressed into a hard line. “Do you regret it? Letting him live?”

“Every god damn minute of the day.”

Somehow, that’s what Pat had expected him to say.

He watched him for a moment, watched his hand clench and unclench where it rested on his thigh and a muscle jumped in his jaw from how hard his teeth were grit. His eyes were hard, like stone, or marble. A stray strand of hair had come out from where he had pushed it back and fell into his eyes. Pat was suddenly sharply aware of how _young_ he really was, of how young _all_ the kids were. No teenager should be bruised and bloodied and wishing they had the guts to end a life. That’s not a decision anyone should make, let alone a teenager.

Pat wanted to move forward and wrap Rick in a tight hug and never let him go, but he knew that it was more likely that Rick would push him away and punch him in the face hard enough to break his jaw, probably running away soon after and never coming back, so he knew that it was better to tread lightly.

But young Rick Tyler had always been a conundrum to him, and there had been something gnawing at the back of his mind since the moment he had seen him this morning, and maybe even his subconscious had told him something was wrong way back when Rick had helped him fix the Buick on the side of the road but just didn't want to acknowledge it or get involved in other people's business. Pat cared about the kid as he cared about all the kids, but with Rick, he at least owed it to his late dad to get to the bottom of it.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Pat pushed away from the shelves and slowly made his way across the garage floor to the table where Rick was sitting silently and stiffly. “Say, Rick,” he said. “You’d tell me if anything was going on, right? If anything were wrong?”

Finally letting go of the pencil he was gripping tightly in his hand, Rick reached up and pushed his hair out of his face before holding it there, his fingers clutching at his hair. “Uh, sure?”

“Will you tell me how you got those bruises? And the cut on your face?” Pat asked innocently and pretended not to notice the way Rick seemed to stiffen even more than should have been possible. 

“Why?” Rick demanded, but his voice didn’t have that edge it usually had, his words weren’t as hardened.

Pat tried to be nonchalant. “Because if there’s someone giving you a hard time, I want to help you out with it,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick refused to look at him. His words seemed to sour in his mouth. “Nothing has changed. I got them on patrol the other night. You were there when it happened."

“That’s alright,” Pat forced a shrug. He decided not to mention that he hadn't seen Rick get hit in the face hard enough to cut skin or bruise. “Just that if there were other kids at the school who thought it was a good idea to pick on you or anything, I was just going to head on down there and politely inform them and their parents of how bad of an idea that is.”

When Rick finally glanced up to look at him, Pat was nearly knocked off his feet by the shocked expression on his face, the rare moment of vulnerability in his eyes. Pat knew that the moment he recovered from his shock, all of that would be gone like it was never there, and Pat would probably never see it again. He was stunned once again by just how _young_ it made him look. “You’d do that?”

“Oh yeah,” Pat said like it was obvious- because it was obvious. It absolutely was. “I’m a father, Rick. It’s my job to take care of my kids. And hey, if those bullies at school didn’t listen to _me_ , I could always get Courtney involved. A little visit by the one and only Stargirl would probably sort them out.”

Gripping the edge of the counter until his fingers went white, Rick seemed to freeze, his eyes darting from place to place as he thought about what Pat had said. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before he snapped it with an audible  _ click! _ Pat waited. If there was one thing Pat knew from his experience of being a father, it was when a kid was willing to tell him something valuable or important and knew when to wait and when to push. This was one of those times he needed to wait.

“Uh, no, that’s not necessary,” Rick said. His voice sounded thick, like honey, or tar. He cleared his throat and looked back down at his father's journal. “There’s no need to get anyone involved. It was an accident. I was just in the way.”

“What was an accident?” Pat prodded gently. “Who’s way were you in?”

Silently, Rick flipped over the journal, shutting the pages so the cover was staring up at him. He ran his fingers reverently over his father’s name before he answered in a rush. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” Pat said, and he had the sudden thought that maybe Rick had never heard those words before. He leaned forward onto the table, close enough that he could rake his fingers through Rick’s hair if he wanted to, but he resisted because he didn’t really want his fingers broken. He only got away with that nonsense at the gym because Rick was so shocked. He probably wouldn’t have the same reaction now. “Who did this to you?”

Somehow, Rick seemed to get smaller in his seat, which Pat had thought was physically impossible. Rick was a pretty big kid, both in size and stature, and an indomitable force if Pat had ever seen one. Seeing him so small on the chair now was just not right. “My uncle,” Rick said eventually, but it sounded like it pained him to utter those words. “He gets drunk a lot. And sometimes, when he gets drunk, he gets… violent.”

The truth was something that Pat had expected, but the admission still nearly knocked him off of his feet. He let out a slow breath as he straightened. “Well then,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. Rick flinched regardless and glanced in the opposite direction of Pat “Does this happen… often?”

Rick shrugged and only said. “I’m not home very often,” which didn’t answer his question in the slightest. Abruptly, he stood and swiped all his things off the desk and back into his bag. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Thanks for letting me come over Pat, and invade your space and fiddle with your robot and stuff.”

“My space is your space. I’m more than happy to have the company,” Pat said as he trailed a little behind Rick on his way out of the Pit Stop. “Are you really going to walk? It’s a long way. I’m happy to give you a lift home.”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Rick said a little too quickly. “But I appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Rick,” Pat said as he watched him leave, very sad to see him go. Suddenly, an idea struck him like a bolt of lightning and he jogged down the footpath a little bit so he was within shouting distance of Rick. “Hey!” He called, and Rick paused his hastened walk to turn and look at him. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

Even from this distance, Rick’s confusion was still obvious. “Dinner? Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, with all of us,” Pat shouted. “I would invite you over tonight, but it’s only right that I give Barbara fair warning. You can come over early, and I can teach you a few basic moves before dinner. What do you say?”

For a long moment, Pat was worried that Rick was going to brush him off, was going to ignore him and turn around and continue his long walk back to his home in West Farms, but Pat knew to be patient, and eventually, his patience paid off. “Yeah, alright,” Was Rick’s shouted reply, hesitant and optimistic at the same time. “I think I’d like that if you don’t mind. Thanks, Pat.”

“Be there or be square!” Pat waved to Rick as he turned around, and watched with his hands on his hips until the kid was out of sight before he shook his head with a sigh.  _ “Be there or be square? _ What the hell was that? Some cheesy sit-com line? Embarrassing.”

Pat once again entered the Pit Stop, taking a moment to stare long and hard at the giant robot hidden mostly in the darkened corner, disassembled under the stairs, and considered all the things he could do to Rick’s uncle by the time Rick got to West Farms. 

Reluctantly, he shook his head and turned away from the awaiting S.T.R.I.P.E, blowing a long breath out his nose as he did so, counting to ten silently in his head. He sat down where Rick had previously been sitting to jot down everything he had learned and spent the rest of the day committing it to memory along with a reminder to tell Barbara to expect an extra guest for dinner tomorrow night.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know them, there is this really amazing YouTuber who I am obsessed with. All their videos are absolutely amazing, and I suggest you check them out!! Their Stargirl vids are top-notch and we have been blessed with their beauty. I think I've watched them all five times each. I love the Rick one and the team one the most, but you should check them all out!!
> 
> Here is a Stargirl one that should recommend you the rest: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsNEq9T2Qi0
> 
> And here is their account for those of you who want to check out all their other vids: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCSbwVzW3itqSGTMbOYROKZA


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